


Right Through You

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Beginnings, Concerts, F/F, Fame, New Relationship, related work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 14:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17184905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Mia Rutherford is tired of her humdrum life in Honnleath -- especially now that Cullen is starting to strike out on his own. It's time for a change and a Golden Mirror concert at The Ruin might be just the thing.[Companion piece for Chapter 10 of little_abyss'Memory Remains]





	Right Through You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Memory Remains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981026) by [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss). 



> About six months ago, when Memory Remains was just in its infancy, I wrote this little piece because Morrigan is a perma-fav of mine and Mia often gets pigeonholed as 'maternal'...

* * *

“Where are _you_ going?” asks Cullen.

Mia freezes, her hand clenched around the brass doorknob. _Shit._ She turns as slowly as she dares and tries to smile. “Out.”

“Oh yeah? Do mom and dad know you’re going ‘out’?” Cullen saunters up to her, looking smug — _what an_ _ass_.

She huffs. “What’s it to you?”

“Oh, I dunno… but it seems a little suspect…”

Mia looks at the clock over Cullen’s shoulder. She’s late already. If she doesn’t leave in the next three minutes she’s never going to find parking downtown. The Ruin is a pretty small venue and it’s assured to be packed tonight; it’s not every day someone as well-known as Gold Mirror comes to town.

“Listen, are you going to snitch or what?” she asks haughtily, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

Cullen laughs. “Not _this_ time… but you owe me.”  He nods and turns back toward the kitchen.

Mia realizes she ought to have asked what _he_ was doing up too… and why that friend of his is always around these days, but she didn’t. She’s too focused on the plan — the one night of her life she’s chosen to shirk responsibility.

 

* * *

 

 

Predictably, the parking situation is abysmal. She finally finds a spot on the street — whether or not it’s permissible to park _that_ close to a fire hydrant is debatable, but she doesn’t think the cops will care tonight… not when the streets are full of beer cans and half-smoked blunts.

On the sidewalk, she moves fast enough that she feels warm, even in the chilly night air. She pulls her sweater off and ties it around her waist as she approaches the long line of people waiting to get in. It’s tight and she can’t see over all the heads. Someone elbows her; another one tries to edge her out of the line.

“Hey!” shouts someone, “Excuse you...”

She turns, ready to apologize, but the kid in front of her has an arresting face: big green eyes and wildly styled peach-blonde hair… his coat is clearly too big — someone else’s — but he’s wearing it like he’s royalty. It makes Mia want to laugh, but she doesn’t. “Sorry.”

He glares at her for a moment, but then shrugs and turns back to a bevy of friends when they call, “ _C’mon, Trev— let’s go_!”

The street is packed and noisy, but Mia often thinks the most anonymous place of all is in the midst of a crowd. She stares at the ground and contemplates the cracks in the worn leather of her shoes. She’s almost entirely lost in thought when a scream runs through the crowd. She lifts her chin and looks… There she is: Morrigan.

She steps out in front of the crowd, arm raised, hand shielding her eyes from the onslaught of paparazzi flashbulbs. The crowd cheers; people scream her name… and Mia watches, imagining what that life must feel like — to be that free… It’s then that she notices Morrigan’s face: she’s utterly unmoved — worse than nonplussed, she actually manages to look _annoyed_ at all this attention. Mia laughs to herself; she always thought Morrigan was a bitch... but isn’t that the way everyone is taught to describe confident women? …the ones who possess power enough not to _care_.

She’s gorgeous, of course — sleek and austere. Her outfit today is even more revealing than the ones Mia has seen in magazines — it borders on graphic when she turns to the side, revealing the outline of something Mia imagines ( _hopes_?) is a nipple.

Mia coughs and shakes her head, dispelling the feeling that has started to take shape in her guts. It’s easier when Morrigan sneers at the crowd again, easier still when she’s _gone_ — whisked behind the rope — and the line finally moves.

 

* * *

 

 

The show is good — maybe the best one Mia has been to, although that isn’t saying much. Honnleath isn't exactly known for its drawing power to big-name bands… more like a final penance before the trek back home. Nevertheless, the whole experience is colored by the fact that Mia snuck out. She is _tired_ of being the oldest; she’s tired of its weight. Tonight, even alone in a belligerent crowd of drunks and groupies, she thinks she’s starting to realize who she actually _is_ — away from adolescence.

That is, until she’s out on the sidewalk, beginning her trip home — ears still ringing and body vibrating — and someone gets in her way.

“Hey,” says the someone. “I saw you in there; were you _bored_?”

Mia blinks and looks up, eyes barely focusing in the haze of sidewalk cigarette-smokers and variable incandescent light. It only takes a second to put the pieces together: wild black hair, catlike amber eyes, horde of security in clandestine orbit… and a disposition that can only be described as _acerbic_.

“Morrigan?” blurts Mia.

“Yeah… you just watched me for an hour; you can’t remember?” Morrigan’s lip curls and she takes a step forward, waving off two worried-looking men in all-black suits.

Instinctively, Mia backs up. Unfortunately, she misjudges how close she is to the wall behind her — her bare shoulder scrapes against the brick painfully.

“Careful…” says Morrigan, reaching out, but there’s nothing comforting in her tone. If anything, it sounds like a critique. “So what’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

Morrigan laughs; her face curls into something _like_ a smile. “What are you doing here if you hate music?”

“I don’t hate music,” snaps Mia. It comes out sharper than she intends. _I just don’t like you_ , she thinks — lying even to herself.

“Then why the sour face?” asks Morrigan. She’s leaning in, Mia notices — cornering her like a prowling animal.

“There’s nothing sour about it. I’m just not so easily entertained, I guess,” says Mia. She’s actually quite proud of her candor. At home, she’s the big sister, the example, an extension of her parents, more often than not, but here she’s just herself… or… more accurately, whoever she _wants_ to be.

“So easily as _whom_?” prods Morrigan. She manages to take even another step closer. In so doing, she steps directly into a beam of lamplight. It illuminates her features terrifyingly.

“The rest of these idiots,” snaps Mia. She suddenly can’t take herself seriously and bursts out laughing. “Andraste, what do you care? You’re Morrigan; you’re _famous_.”

Morrigan’s upper lip curls and she cranes her neck forward another inch. “Who cares who I am? Right now, I’m more interested in _you_.”

Now Mia thinks she might be in the most vivid of daydreams. A minute from now she’ll discover she’s still standing outside the club, watching Morrigan get out of her car and shun the crowd… or, more likely, that she’s still at home, checking on Bran and ignoring Cullen — staring wantonly at that magazine cover of Morrigan in all her studio-lit glory.

“Hey,” Mia blurts suddenly. “You noticed me in the crowd?”

Morrigan raises an eyebrow.

“...you noticed me enough to think I looked _bored_?” Mia repeats incredulously.

“ _So_?”

“So?” Mia repeats, voice nearly cracking. ‘ _So what does that mean?’_ she thinks, but doesn’t manage to say it.

“What’s your name?” asks Morrigan suddenly.

“It’s…” Mia falters. “It’s Rutherford… Mia Rutherford.”

Morrigan keeps looking at her — an unnerving level of eye contact. “And what kind of a person is Mia Rutherford?” she asks.

Mia doesn’t know, of course, but she _wants_ to. She wants to be someone bold and frank and forceful and fair. But she can’t seem to say any of that, so she stands there silently, staring into Morrigan’s oddly beautiful face, wishing she knew what was about to happen. It’s _something_ , surely; even the air is crackling with unexpressed energy.

Morrigan’s eyes narrow appraisingly. “Well, Mia, you have about twenty seconds to decide.”

“Decide?”

Morrigan steps back and gestures to a long, black limo parked conspicuously at the curb. “Get in or don’t.”

Mia bites the inside of her lip, every muscle straining in painful anticipation _and_ abject terror. Replaying in her head is every night that Cullen snuck out when she stayed home… every moment of feigned adulthood and expected maternal instinct. Every presumption a rock in her pocket and every remembered conversation loud between her ears.

Morrigan shrugs and looks away, turning toward the car… and something _snaps_.

“Wait!” calls Mia, reaching out for Morrigan’s arm.

Morrigan looks back over her shoulder, smiling deviously. “I knew you’d choose well — right when I first noticed you.” Gently, she slides her arm out of Mia’s grasp until she can grip her palm. “Let’s go.”

...and full of trepidation, Mia squeezes back.

* * *

 


End file.
